


Shy Beneath the Cloth

by ellydash



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, First Time, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:47:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellydash/pseuds/ellydash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma’s spent the first thirty years of her life following a doctrine of denial. It keeps her safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shy Beneath the Cloth

_unrest_

 _  
_

Emma can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. 

  
It follows her around, settling in her stomach, preventing her from eating more than a few grapes at lunch. She has to push away her carefully bisected sandwich, even though she abhors waste. It rests on her shoulders, making her muscles ache from the strain. It curls around her hands, and she can’t type her emails without her fingers slipping, making typos that she corrects before sending. 

  
Carl is so good to her, so gentle, and she’s grateful to him for what he’s given her: the gift of validation. After Ken, after Will, she’d been so sure she’d lost whatever chance she had at finding someone to share her life with. Then she’d had her teeth cleaning appointment and there, like a sign from God, was Carl, grinning down at her in the chair. She hadn’t been able to see his face too well, in that first glimpse, since the dental lamp behind his head blacked it out, creating a halo of light around Carl that she  _knew_ , still knows, was a sign. Carl’s her best chance at happiness, Emma believes. The way he looks at her makes her feel like she’s in the center of the picture, not fighting for the margins.

  
He’s been hinting at their future, little references to  _next summer we’ll go visit my folks in Cleveland for a week_  or  _it’ll be so great when our kids get old enough to floss on their own_. It makes Emma’s palms sweat and her heart race; she reaches for her hand sanitizer and answers him with a smile. She doesn’t build on these predictions with him, doesn’t add her own forecast. There’s no need, really. Carl has it all planned out.

  
All she needs to do is let it happen. It’s awfully easy, she knows, like slipping into a warm bath after a long day at work or falling asleep underneath heavy covers. She’ll tumble into the rest of her life with her eyes open and Carl, solid, loving Carl there to catch her.

  
 _This is the right thing_ , she tells herself,  _this is your medicine, and it is so good for you_.

  
She drinks chamomile tea, mug after mug. 

 

 

 _session_

  
“You seem anxious today, Emma,” her therapist comments, during one Thursday afternoon session. “Any reason?”

  
“No,” she says, quickly. “I mean, I’m not anxious. Not exactly.”

  
“What are you, then?”

  
She considers this, feeling the soft fabric of the couch arm beneath her fingers, and can’t articulate the disquiet stalking up her spine. “I’m not sure.” 

  
“Has anything else happened with Will?” Nancy asks, uncrossing her legs and looking down at her notepad. “Last week, you were distressed about – a rehearsal, right? You sang a song with him, from a musical. It got pretty sexual, from what I remember you telling me.” 

  
Emma nods, remembering how she’d pulled Will’s hands over her stomach and sternum; the press of them on her, hot and insistent. The feel of his erection against her bottom. The way she’d pushed back against him, suddenly shameless like good girls aren’t supposed to be. “I told Carl about it,” she confesses. “I couldn’t keep something like that from him. And I told Will that he and I – Will and I, I mean – couldn’t let anything like that happen again.”

  
“Like that,” Nancy repeats. “Can you tell me what you mean by ‘like that’?” 

  
Her mouth is a desert, thick with aridity. “Do I really have to say it out loud?”

  
“I’d like you to try.”

  
This is Nancy's new tactic, to get Emma more comfortable with her body by pushing her to describe its wants. It’s terrifying, and it makes Emma want to crawl beneath Nancy's chenille couch, where she’s sure it’s dark and quiet and close. No one’s ever asked her to acknowledge her desires before. It’s so much easier, really, to pretend she doesn’t have them. Emma’s spent the first thirty years of her life following a doctrine of denial. It keeps her safe. 

  
“I told Will there couldn’t be anything – sexual between us,” she manages. “Not now that I’m with Carl. I love Carl. I want to be with him, not Will.” It’s true, really. Carl takes care of her in a way that Will doesn’t, or can’t, maybe. He understands how hard it is for her to leave her apartment without checking the locks four times, and he doesn’t laugh at her portable mouthwash, her disinfectant, her hand wipes. Not that Will had laughed at her; he didn’t, he hasn’t, but there’s a look he gets when she reaches for her special strength soap, something like incredulity.

  
The clamp of tension locked in her belly loosens a little when Nancy smiles, her expression kind. “I’m proud of you, Emma,” she says. “You were clear about your boundaries with Will in a way I can’t remember you being before. Does that feel good to you?”

  
“Yes,” she replies, automatically. It’s what Nancy wants to hear. Emma’s rewarded with a quick grin and the glow of her therapist’s approval, that lovely marker of progress she clings to when she feels like she’s spinning her wheels in the mud of her illness. 

  
It doesn’t feel good, though. Not at all. 

  
When Nancy ends the session, walks Emma out of her office with her customary  _see you next week_ , she puts her hand on Emma’s shoulder in well-meaning reassurance, and presses just a little. The added weight makes Emma want to protest, to tell Nancy she’s giving Emma more than she can handle, but she doesn’t. It’s simpler, in the long run, to stay quiet.

 

 

 _affirmation_

  
Each morning, as she rearranges the pictures and papers and pens on her desk just so, to make sure they’re appropriately aligned before the school day begins, she tells herself that she is a good guidance counselor. 

  
It’s something Nancy's suggested, a kind of self-affirmation, and even though Emma can’t help but think of that ridiculous Saturday Night Live sketch with Stuart Smalley, the thought always gives her an extra push of confidence. Today, she feels convinced, nearly.

  
She sees Will through the glass wall of her office, passing by, and she raises her hand quickly to catch his eye before she remembers that things are awkward between them right now, and it might be better to pretend she hasn’t seen him. He slows his quick pace, and smiles at her, a half-hearted twist Emma’s sure isn’t easy for him to manage. 

  
Her stomach pinches and she returns the smile, curling her fingers in his direction.  _Hi_ , she mouths. 

  
Will mirrors her raised hand. They watch each other across the gap, briefly, and when he turns away to continue down the hallway Emma stares down at her neat desk, her pens arranged in order of most ink to least ink. (She only buys pens with see-through chambers.)

  
 _I am a good guidance counselor_ , she reminds herself. 

  
The rap on her door startles Emma out of her mantra, and she looks up sharply to find Finn Hudson standing where Will had been, not ten seconds earlier. He’s looking nervous, and the expression on her face gives her the resolve she needs to wave him inside her office. It’s not like she’s afraid of the students, not exactly, but it’s so much easier for Emma when they remind her how young they really are. 

  
“Finn,” she says, as he opens the door. “Come on in. How can I help you?”

  
“Hey, Ms. Pillsbury,” he greets her, and shuffles towards her desk. “How’s it going?”

  
“Fine. Thank you for asking.” Emma loves politeness, especially appreciates it when the students take a moment to enquire after her. Even if their questions are really just empty social exchange. “Are you okay? Is everything all right with Rachel? Is she pressuring you to do things you aren’t ready for? Because if she is, I have a pamphlet for you.” She already knows the perfect one, a bright green handout titled HELP! MY GIRLFRIEND CAN’T KEEP HER HANDS OFF ME.

  
Finn shakes his head. “Uh, no. I’m actually not here for me. It’s about someone else.” He taps the chair in front of him several times, beating an awkward pattern into the frame. “I know this is a little weird, but I think maybe you should talk to Sam Evans.”

  
“Sam?” She’s startled. “Why?”

  
“I feel like a tool for going behind his back, but some of the stuff he’s said to me lately, about his body, it’s kind of messed up. We had that assembly last year about body image, you know? I mean, I didn’t pay a lot of attention, because Puck was poking me in the neck with a pencil most of the time, but I remember that lady said something about unrealism.”

  
“Unrealistic self-image?” Emma prompts, trying to clarify. 

  
“Yeah, that’s it. And Sam’s, like, completely convinced that he’s fat or something. He told me he had stomach rolls. Which, okay, Ms. P, you’ve seen the dude in his Rocky costume. It’s crazy, right?”

  
Yes, Emma’s seen Sam in his Rocky costume. She remembers marveling at what she’d thought was the boy’s self-confidence: standing on stage in front of his peers and teachers, in a strip of material barely large enough to cover his unmentionable areas. 

  
“I’ll speak to him, Finn,” she says, warmly. “Thanks for letting me know about this. You’re a good friend.”

  
Finn shrugs, looking undecided. “I guess. I sort of feel like I broke the bro code by telling you, but the stuff he was saying freaked me out.”

  
“He won’t know you’ve been to see me,” Emma promises. “I keep everything students tell me confidential, as long as they’re not threatening harm to themselves or to others. And you did the right thing, telling me. Really.”

  
She knows she hasn’t convinced Finn, but he manages a nod that tells Emma he appreciates her trying, and ducks out of her office with the awkward speed of a sixteen year old boy who doesn’t know how to end a conversation. 

  
Emma doesn’t have any student appointments until ten o’clock, and so she spends her time composing an email to Sam Evans designed to bring him in for a meeting without revealing the real reasons behind her request. (Email is Emma’s preferred form of communication with the students; she gets out her stutters through writing, backspaces through her thoughts in a way she can’t do in person.) She chooses Calibri for her font, after several minutes of deliberation, because it seems to strike the right note of simultaneous professionalism and approachability. 

 

 _Dear Sam,_

 

 _Hello! You might remember me from Mr. Schuester’s production of_ Rocky Horror _. I’m Ms. Pillsbury, the guidance counselor. I made your costumes? Yours took no time at all!_

 

She deletes those last two sentences immediately after writing them.

 

 _When students transfer to our school,, I like to meet with them, one on one, so I can introduce myself and possibly answer any questions you might have about life here at McKinley. I know you’ve been here for a while, and I apologize for not contacting you before this, but I’d still appreciate a few minutes of your time._

 

 _Please stop by tomorrow, at the beginning of your Spanish class. I’m sure Mr. Schuester will be fine with it._

 

 _And if he’s not_ , she mentally adds,  _well, then, the heck with him._

  
Emma reviews her writing for the errors she’s been making more often, lately, and finds a few extra spaces and duplicated commas, frowns at her shoddy grammar. It’s not like the students care, honestly. She knows this. They barely know how to put sentences together themselves. It’s important to Emma, though, that she comes across as articulate, knowledgeable: a professional who can express herself without embarrassment. 

  
She finds the listing she’s looking for in her computer files, student listings newly updated for the current semester:

  
Evans, Sam. Junior. rocketmansam@gmail.com. 

  
“Huh,” she says, out loud. An Elton John reference? Or maybe a tongue-in-cheek nod to William Shatner’s cover? It’s probably some other meaning she doesn’t know. In her experience, these kids don’t have memories that reach farther back than the Backstreet Boys’ last album, and even that might be generous. 

  
The send button is easy to push this morning, and for that tiny, unexpected blessing, Emma’s thankful.

 

 

 _introduction_

 _  
_

His mouth really is ridiculously large.

  
She’d noticed it during Rocky Horror rehearsals, in between worrying about Will and Carl jockeying for dominance: a quick thought without staying power. Now that he’s sitting in front of her, though, the observation swings back into her head, and Emma chides herself for not being able to focus. 

  
“Thank you for coming, Sam,” she says, to remind herself why she’s brought him here. 

  
He shrugs good-naturedly, the same nonchalant gesture she’d seen from Finn, from nearly every other boy she’s had trudge in and out of her office over the last few years she’s worked at McKinley. “Sure. I’m not that into Spanish, anyway, so it’s not like, a huge sacrifice to be here or anything.”

  
Emma folds her hands together on top of her desk, fingers interlocking, and tries not to stare at his mouth. It’s difficult. “So,” she continues, attempting a soft smile, “this meeting is just for us to get to know one another a little better. I’d like for you to feel comfortable enough so that if you ever have any, you know, problems, you can bring them to me. That’s what I’m here for.” 

  
Sam nods, gripping the arms of his chair like they’ll tell him how to answer her. “Okay,” he says, finally. “Cool.”

  
“How are you settling in?” she asks, watching Sam’s lips thin a little as he bites the inside of his mouth. “Mr. Schuester tells me that you and Finn Hudson seem to be getting along very well. And that you’re dating Quinn Fabray. That’s very impressive, Sam. Quinn’s one of the most popular girls at this school, you know.”

  
“I know.” He smiles, then, a real smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. “It’s pretty amazing. That she’s actually going out with me.”

  
“Why?” Emma catches the thin note of self-effacement in his voice. She knows that sound, hears it all the time emerging from her own mouth. “Why is it so amazing?”

  
“I mean, I know girls think I’m hot.” Sam says it matter-of-factly, and Emma wonders, not for the first time, what it must be like to know people are staring at you because they think you’re beautiful, not because you’re wearing rubber gloves or because you’re too petrified to touch the sink in the public bathroom without pre-applying disinfectant. “But hotness isn’t enough. You’ve gotta be cool, too. I’m getting there, you know. I’m gonna be quarterback again. That’s my ticket to getting Quinn for good.”

  
“Isn’t that Finn Hudson’s position?” She’s surprised by how easily he’s talking to her, like he’s been waiting for someone to ask him these questions. 

  
“Yeah. Don’t get me wrong, Finn’s a good guy. He helps me with my reps and stuff. But he’s dating Rachel. I’m trying to get with Quinn. It’s pretty easy to see which one of us makes the better power couple.” 

  
 _If he and I were the same age, at the same high school,_  Emma thinks,  _this boy would never give me the time of day_. “Why does that matter to you so much?”

  
“Why does it matter to anyone?” he asks her, and the question startles her out of her growing dislike. “Doesn’t everyone want to be popular?”

  
She would like to tell him no; it’s what she should say, honestly, if she’s going to convince him that being true to himself is the right way to go about transitioning into adulthood. “Yes,” she says, instead, and the small flicker of surprise on his face tells Emma that he wasn’t expecting her answer.

  
“You too?” he asks, quietly.

  
“We’re not here to discuss me.” This time, she has the right answer. “We’re here to discuss you.”

  
“ _Discuss_?” Sam’s caught her tone. Emma winces, a little. She can’t help it. “I thought I was here for some introduction thing. What do you mean, discuss?”

  
It’s pointless to try and dissemble. Every thought Emma has shows on her face, plain as unflavored yogurt, and she doesn’t have the energy to cover it up. “I understand from an anonymous source that you might have an unhealthy body image.”

  
“Who told you that?” He’s alarmed. “Mr. Schuester? Just because I freaked out a little about playing Rocky? You should be talking to Finn.  _He’s_  the one who can’t even swim without a shirt on.”

  
She doesn’t correct his assumption. “Sam, if you’re concerned about your body, I can help, but you’re going to have to give me a little more information. I need to know what pamphlet to give you.” 

  
“I don’t need a pamphlet.” 

  
“You don’t know that.” Emma, personally, finds her pamphlets incredibly reassuring. Sometimes, when she’s feeling particularly nervous or distressed, she’ll look at their neat geometry, perfect rectangles in bright, cheering colors. They have answers for her, even if they’re usually not the answers she needs. 

  
Sam laughs, a low chuckle with a note of disbelief. “I don’t have a problem,” he says. “I’m just really disciplined, okay? People don’t understand that. They don’t get how much work this takes.”

  
“How much work what takes?” She hears Nancy's voice in her own question.  _Be more specific, Emma. Can you tell me what you mean when you use those words?_

  
“I don’t know, whatever. Staying in shape, I guess. Being liked.”

  
“Are those things related for you?” she asks, carefully, thinking about the times she’s pushed away her carefully cut sandwich, left the cookie in her bag untouched: partly from an upset stomach, partly to chase the pleasures of denial. Hoping someone might notice, maybe approve of her self-discipline. 

  
Sam doesn’t answer. 

  
“I’m fine,” he says, after a pause. “I’m better than fine, actually. Everything’s going the way I wanted. Even better. I get to walk down the hallway with Quinn Fabray on my arm. Someone actually asked me to be in some dumb calendar. Do you have any idea what usually happens to the new kid?”

  
Emma does, actually. She’s had a lot of them in her office over the years. She plans on telling him she understands, but instead what comes out is an embarrassing non-sequitur. 

  
“Rocket man,” she blurts, probably a result of some misfire between her cerebellum and her vocal chords. 

  
Sam looks at her like she’s crazy. (It’s a look Emma’s familiar with.)

  
“The email,” she continues, hearing the hyper tone in her voice and hating herself for being unable to stop it. “Your email address. You’re rocketmansam. What’s that from? Is it Elton John?”

  
“Um.” He’s having difficulty transitioning between topics, she can tell. “No. I read this book by Ray Bradbury a couple years ago, _The Illustrated Man_ , and there was this story in there I really liked, called “The Rocket Man.” And I guess I thought rocketmansam was cool, or something. I was pretty much a total nerd back then.”

  
“I love Ray Bradbury,” Emma says, surprised. It’s true, she does. “I’ve got maybe three or four of his books at home. Including  _The Illustrated Man_. Did you read it for school?”

  
“Nah,” he says, sounding embarrassed. “I guess for fun. I liked sci-fi. Still do. I watch a lot of movies with aliens and weird technology and all that shi – stuff.”

  
She smiles at him, a real smile, the first one she’s given him. It takes a few seconds, but he yields her a grin in return. 

  
“Come back again,” she offers, her voice soft. “I’ll get Will – Mr. Schuester – to give you a little time out of Spanish a couple times a week.” It’s not kosher, exactly, to take a student out of class on a regular basis, but this, she knows, is the easiest way to get Sam to give her the time he needs. Will won’t protest, not if Emma speaks to him about it. “Just for a while, okay? It might be nice to talk.”

  
His grin fades a little. “No lectures?” he asks. 

  
“Nope,” Emma promises. “Just talk.”

  
“It beats Spanish, I guess.”

  
His mouth still curves a little, the flicker of a smile still there, and she wonders if he might’ve given her the time of day in high school, after all. 

 

 

 _respite_

 _  
_

The next time Sam comes to her office, he’s subdued, and it takes Emma nearly fifteen minutes of prodding to get him to tell her why. 

  
When he finally does, she can’t contain her blush. “Oh,” she says, a little breathlessly. “That’s not very nice at all.”

  
He’s blushing too, his red face a bright contrast with the shock of blond hair. “I know. Look, I didn’t mean to hurt her, okay? She’s a really nice lady. She didn’t need to find out about this. I don’t know why Mr. Schue had to tell her.”

  
Emma’s not sure, either.  _Poor Shannon_ , she thinks, feeling a wave of sympathy. “I can’t imagine how painful that was for Coach Beiste,” she tells him, unable to keep the censure out of her voice. “If someone ever used me like that –“ She stops. Now she’s really blushing. 

  
“I don’t think you have to worry about that, Ms. Pillsbury,” he mutters, not looking at her. 

  
“Oh,” she repeats, and clamps her mouth shut on the oddly grateful  _thank you_ that’s threatening to emerge. It’s completely inappropriate. 

  
“It doesn’t stop, you know?” Sam says, abruptly. 

  
Emma watches his face, still flushed with the traces of his embarrassment. “What doesn’t stop?”

  
“Everything. I don’t know. Having to be the best all the time. With Quinn, in glee, on the football field. I’m tired.” He’s quiet. “I get really tired.”

  
The clamp of tension in Emma’s belly tightens in recognition. “I’m sorry,” she manages, and clears her throat. “That must be so hard for you. Carrying around all that pressure.”

  
“I guess.” He still won’t look directly at her. “I mean, I can handle it. It’s just that sometimes it’d be nice to relax.”

  
“Can you relax in here?” she asks. “With me?”

  
Sam’s eyes travel slowly across her neat desk, and then he’s watching her face, like he’s trying to find an answer to her question in the planes of her cheeks and chin and mouth. 

  
On an impulse, she extends her hand towards him across the desk. It’s an offering he won’t appreciate, not when he doesn’t know how much it costs her to risk contagion, but it feels right, even if it’s terrifying.

  
He doesn’t move, and for a moment Emma feels the quick cold fear of error steal across her body. Just before she pulls back, though, he reaches out and places his hand over hers. It’s warm and calloused, the palm of his hand rougher than any teenager’s has a right to be. Too many weights, she thinks. She understands that.

  
“Yeah,” he says. Emma realizes, belatedly, that he’s answering her question. “Yeah, maybe.”

  
She squeezes his hand. “I’m glad,” she tells him, and the pain in her stomach is suddenly looser, muted. She doesn’t say,  _me too_.

 

 

 _backbone_

 _  
_

She sits with Will at lunch the next day, because he’s alone at his table and there’s no reason not to, really. Yes, it’s a little awkward between them, and yes, she’d like to tell him a few things she’s been keeping bottled up inside, but at the end of the day, he’s still her friend and she doesn’t want to avoid him. Not exactly. 

  
The smile he gives her is warm and unguarded. “Hey, Em. How’s your day going?”

  
“Oh, not bad,” she says. “The usual spate of problems. Nothing I can’t handle.” 

  
“I’m sure it isn’t.” He looks down at his bag lunch, the requisite soda, sandwich and cookie he’s brought to school every day since she’d first met him. “Sometimes I wish I had your talent for dealing with these kids’ issues, you know? I just went through this whole thing with the boys in glee –” He breaks off. “I probably shouldn’t tell you. But it was pretty rough going for a while.” 

  
She almost tells him she knows about the problem with Shannon, but stops herself just in time. Sam’s confession is confidential, even if Will already knows about it. “I’m sure you handled it the best you could,” she says, encouragingly.

  
“It turned out okay in the end. Has Sam mentioned anyth – ” He cuts off, looks behind her, and winces. “God. The last thing I need right now.”

  
Emma looks up to see Sue Sylvester, striding towards them with imperious conceit. She’s holding a stack of files nearly a foot thick, and her expression is masterful, suffused with the glory of premeditated triumph. 

  
Will groans, rubbing his temple in what Emma guesses is anticipation of an oncoming headache. “Hello, Sue,” he says, flatly. 

  
“Well, hey there, William,” she returns, her voice cheerful. “Alma. Nice to see you’re not letting the general population’s understandable disgust for ample-eyed gingers keep you from venturing outdoors. It’s a real sign of increasing mental health.”

  
“What’s that stack of papers for?” Will asks, before Emma has a chance to say anything. She’s grateful for his interruption.

  
“Glad you asked, buddy, since it concerns you. These files are just one small part of the dossier I’m currently putting together, documenting the appalling extremes of your inappropriate behavior on school grounds. Gloria Allred’s gonna have a field day with this in court. By the way, I just found out she hides ninja stars in her shoulder pads. A real inspiration, that lady.” 

  
“ _Excuse_  me?” His eyes widen. 

  
“Your eardrums collapse under the strain of all that underage caterwauling? I said I’m  _suing_  you, William. Someone’s got to stop your assault on boundaries, and as always, one Sue Sylvester’s left to do the dirty work when no one else has the balls to step up.” She drops the stack of files on their lunch table, and lowers herself into the chair between them, smirking. “Enid, I’m gonna have to strong-arm you into appearing on the stand as my star witness.”

  
Emma doesn’t respond. She’s learned that the best way to handle Sue is not to engage with her at all, something Will apparently doesn’t understand. 

  
“Of course,” Sue continues, shrugging, “if you give a sea witch your voice in exchange for human legs before the trial, I’ll have to find someone else to testify.” She swivels towards Will, mouth curling upward in satisfaction; she’s a cat playing with her food. “Shouldn’t be hard, thanks to that outrageous Britney Spears performance of yours last month. My God, Will, some of the faculty were about two hip thrusts away from trimming your face with their J.C. Penney control tops.” 

  
Will shakes his head, as if he’s attempting to clear it to make room for this fresh witticism. “You can’t be serious about this.”

  
“I never joke about sexual harassment in the workplace, William. Who’s next on your perverted list of attempted conquests? Me? Figgins? The  _Beiste_ , for God’s sake?”

  
At the mention of Shannon Beiste’s name, the color drains out of Will’s face, and Emma, noticing, wonders if he’s feeling particularly protective of her after the incident with the boys.

  
Sue, never one to miss a tell, sneers at him, pushing her face up against his. “Your depravity knows no bounds,” she hisses. “Maybe I should have a little talk with Beiste. Coach-to-coach. Let her know she doesn’t have to suffer the indignities of Will Schuester’s noxious bulk forcing itself on her without recourse.”

  
“Don’t you dare,” Will snaps at her, tossing his cookie on the table. “Shannon’s worth ten of you, Sue. Stay away from her.”

  
“Or else  _what_?”

  
“Just  _stop_  it!” Emma shrieks. 

  
Will and Sue whirl to look at her, startled out of their verbal tennis match. 

  
She’s shaking with frustration, jarred out of her quiet complacency by anger. “You’re  _children_ ,” she spits. “Both of you. You’re supposed to be in charge, but you keep up this ridiculous rivalry like it matters more than looking after the students –”

  
“Hey!” Will tosses up his hands. “Em, I didn’t do anything here, you know that! She’s the one always provoking me.  _She’s_  the one who steals my set lists and tries to sabotage the kids.  _She’s_  the one accusing me of sexual harassment, for crying out loud.” He laughs a little, to indicate how insane the charge is. 

  
“Oh, you poor victim,” she says, sarcastically. “You poor thing. Everything bad always happens to Will Schuester, and absolutely none of it is ever his fault. Learn to take some responsibility for your life, Will.”

  
Sue snorts, clearly approving.

  
“And  _you_ ,” Emma continues, turning her gaze on Sue, and trying not to think about the words coming out of her mouth, in case she loses the courage she’s managed to find, “you’re a despicable human being who cares more about hurting others than anything else in your narrow, small life. I bet you spend your nights planning out ways to get back at Will, just because it makes you feel less _alone_  to think about what you’re going to say to him the next day at school.”

  
The expression of bemusement on Sue’s face slides away, mutates quickly into something wounded and sharp. Emma realizes, with a sudden pang of conscience, that she’s hit on something probably very close to the truth.

  
“I’m so sick of both of you right now,” she tells them, tearing her eyes away from Sue’s, and she grabs her paper bag and walks out of the faculty lounge, knowing they’re watching her go. 

  
Nancy would be proud of her, she knows. There’s a mean little spark inside her flaring up like joy.

 

 

 _eighth_

  
It’s the morning of their eighth session, and when Emma wakes up, the sour taste of sleep in her mouth and the daze of a dream she can’t remember still flooding her eyes, she remembers: _today I meet with Sam_.

  
Pleasure slinks over her, the righteous pleasure of a woman who knows that the day is fresh and open before her, without any missteps or awkwardness polluting it. The pleasure of knowing she’s helping someone, even if only a little, by listening. 

  
She can’t remember ever actively looking forward to seeing him before. It’s slipped up on Emma, this eagerness, like a birthday she wasn’t expecting. 

  
When he enters her office, a few minutes early (did he really cut his lunch short, to come see her?) he’s blushing, just a little, the tips of his cheeks and nose a faint rose color. Emma doesn’t know why; maybe, she thinks, he’s just been spending his lunch period with Quinn, canoodling or something. 

  
She’d never tell him this, especially not now that she knows what it’s cost him, but Emma envies Sam his social fluency, what he’s managed to build for himself here at McKinley, and the strength of that envy makes her light-headed. Even if she tried as hard as he has, even if she tried harder, she wouldn’t be able to construct a self built for others’ consumption. She’s no one’s favorite flavor, except Carl’s, and she loves him for it. (Will chooses her first out of habit, not taste.) 

  
“How’s the substitute?” she asks him by way of greeting, as he sits in the chair facing her desk. “Ms. Holliday, right? She seems like a lot of fun.” Emma knows Holly, a little, from brief encounters in the faculty lounge. The woman seems nice enough, if overly eager to please.

  
Sam brightens. “Yeah, Ms. Holiday’s awesome. She took the whole glee club to Taco Bell the other day, and she totally bought everyone quesadillas.” He doesn’t specify  _everyone but me_ , but Emma knows it’s implied; Sam would never eat a quesadilla. “And she told me I could just hang out here with you during Spanish class until Mr. Schuester gets back.”

  
“The whole period?” She’s surprised. “You’d want to?”

  
“She’s cool and all, but she doesn’t know about Bradbury,” he says, and smiles. 

  
While he’s telling her about his favorite part of “The Veldt” ( _you remember, Ms. Pillsbury, the part with the bloody scarf, oh, man, that was seriously sweet_ ) she watches his face. It’s softly sunny with the glow of his interest. 

  
“Have you been eating more?” she inquires, after he’s finished his sentence. He looks wounded, as if she’s reneging on the rules; they were talking about Bradbury, not food. 

  
“Yeah,” he says, but it’s a lie. She can tell. He does the same thing Emma does when Nancy asks her a question she can’t answer honestly: lick his lips, bite the lower one, briefly. She wonders, somewhat discomfited, if Nancy sees through her as clearly as Emma sees through Sam. 

  
“What if I can’t stop?” he asks, abruptly. “What if I let myself eat a few Wheat Thins or whatever and then I keep going and eat the whole box?”

  
“You tell me,” she says. “What happens if you eat a whole box?” 

  
Sam’s hand strays to the plane of his stomach, and he leans back against the chair. “God. I don’t know. I’d gain weight. I’d feel like shit.”

  
Emma doesn’t comment on his profanity. “I don’t think you’d gain weight. And I’ll eat Wheat Thins with you,” she offers, instead. “We could eat them together.”

  
His hand tightens against the fabric of his shirt, grabbing at the stretch of skin she knows is beneath. She sees a shock of pale flesh as he tugs the cotton tee, lets his hand fall to his side. “Maybe.”

  
She knows  _maybe_ ; it’s the nearest synonym to  _no_ , even if the thesaurus doesn’t recognize the relationship. “I could use a few extra Wheat Thins myself. I haven’t been eating so well lately, either.”

  
“Yeah?” 

  
“Yeah,” she says, not elaborating. Sam doesn’t need to know the details of her missing appetite, and Emma’s not sure how she’d explain them, either, except to tell him the only thing she knows: that something isn’t right.

  
From the way he’s looking at her, though, she doesn’t need to say it. 

  
This time, Sam’s the one who reaches across the desk, wordlessly asking for her hand in return. She gives it to him, without hesitation.

  
Emma thinks about the sanitizer in her drawer, but it’s a cursory thought, a compulsory scratch over a familiar itch.

 

 

 _telephone_

 _  
_

Carl’s at a convention in Toledo, some sales thing with dental equipment (he’d told Emma, and she’d tried to listen, honestly, but even the thought of sterile machines couldn’t keep her interest. She’s been so distracted, lately). It’s quiet in her apartment, without him there in the evenings. He’s been such a staple over the last six months, his white smile matching her white furniture like he’d been pre-ordered for her life. 

  
“I miss you,” she tells him over the phone, curled like a comma on the couch. “How much longer until you come back?”

  
“Sunday, and you know exactly when I’m coming back, Ems,” he says, cheerfully. “I’ve bet you’ve got it marked in your phone calendar with a red star and a link to Google Maps’ directions for Toledo to Lima, so you know exactly how long it’ll take me.”

  
He understands her so well. She’s also got a link to the Ohio State Highway Patrol’s website, just so she can monitor traffic, but Emma doesn’t volunteer this information. “I’m just excited, that’s all.”

  
“I’m glad.” There’s a brief pause. “Can I tell you something, Emma? I don’t want to freak you out.”

  
Oh, it’s exactly what she doesn’t want to hear. A glut of possibilities occur to her, almost simultaneously.  _He’s got a disease. He’s seeing someone else on the side. He’s bisexual. He’s gay. He likes Ke$ha’s new album_. “Well, when you put it like that,” she manages.

  
Carl exhales into the receiver, a loud blast of air that rings in her ear. “Before I left for Toledo,” he admits, talking quickly, “I bought some condoms. And some lubricant. I put them in the cabinet under your kitchen sink so we’d have them just in case. I’m not trying to pressure you, okay? I just thought that after our last conversation, you might be, you know, heading in that direction. I want you to know that we’re prepared, whenever you’re ready.”

  
She’s startled into a response. “Wow, Carl. That’s so nice of you.”

  
“Really?” He sounds surprised. “Awesome. You sure know how to make a dude’s night, Ems. I wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with it. I just wanted to tell you in case you went looking for a bleach refill or something.” 

  
“We can talk about it more, when you get home,” she says, and almost adds,  _I might be ready_ , but doesn’t. Emma needs to talk about this more with Nancy before she makes any decision. It’s not like she thinks of her virginity as a special gift, exactly; that isn’t why she’s refrained from sex. It’s that she needs to be sure she wants to trust Carl with the notches and bends of her body. Being naked, more than anything, with someone else, is what terrifies her: presenting her vulnerable, flawed flesh without the cosmetics of clothing.

  
And this, too, although she can’t quite articulate it to herself: the terror of joining, of allowing another human being access to the pith of her body, where he might find a part of her he doesn’t know.

  
Emma understands, without knowing for sure, that Carl has their first time together all planned out. He’ll put rose petals on the sheets, or sunflower petals if he’s feeling adventurous, and probably some light jazz on her stereo system out in the living room, just loud enough to set the mood in the bedroom. He’ll know exactly what to do. How to touch her just enough to calm her down; how to avoid looking right in her eyes for too long, because he knows just how skittish that makes her; how to unbutton her blouse with one careful hand. She imagines lying under him, staring up at his chest, his neck, his hands above her, looking at the shape and pulp of her future: this man who loves her.

  
“I’ll see you Sunday,” she promises.

 

 

 _mess_

  
She doesn’t plan it. 

  
She reminds herself of that fact, later, in her dark moments of self-recrimination, moments she deserves. At least she didn’t plan it.

  
What she doesn’t plan happens the following night, a school night: she’s washing her dinner dishes in the sink when the doorbell rings. The sound is unfamiliar. Carl’s usually her only visitor, and he has a key. 

  
She dries her hands, quickly, and rushes to peer through the peephole. Sam’s face stares back at her; it’s distorted through the fisheye lens, but she can see enough to know he’s distressed. 

  
“What – “ she mutters, and unlocks the door, pulling it open. “Sam, what are you doing here? How’d you find my place?”

  
He pushes past her, into the apartment. “Google,” he says, shortly.

  
“You shouldn’t be here, Sam,” Emma insists, but she closes the door behind him.

  
“I know.” He paces a little, stalking towards the kitchen, then swiveling on his sneakered heal, walking back in her direction. “I know that, okay? I just couldn’t think of where else to go. I needed to talk to someone. I needed to talk to you.”

  
“What happened?” she asks.

  
“Nothing. I don’t know. I was talking to Quinn on the phone, and she got mad at me, and I don’t think she’s speaking to me now. And I started thinking what if that’s it, you know? Like, what if she’s done with me and that means I’m done now?” He takes a step towards her, and his eyes are wide. “I messed it up. Why’d I have to mess it up? Why do I always mess everything up?”

  
“Sam,” she says, and reaches out, cups his face between her hands. “Oh, Sam. Don’t do that to yourself.”

  
He kisses her. 

  
It’s a clumsy kiss, and it lands mostly on the corner of her lips, but it lasts for more than a few seconds, and while she’s trying to decide what to do, the nerves of her body sparking with panic, she opens her mouth and takes in his uncertain tongue.

  
He stumbles into her, and Emma, still holding his head between her palms, staggers back against the couch. The impact jolts her out of the kiss. She breathes, hard, against his chin. 

  
“Sam,” she says, again. 

  
“I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I walked into your office.”

  
“Don’t tell me that.” She’s dizzy. She pushes him away. “Don’t.”

  
“You’re the only one at this school who really talks to me,” he tells her. “You’re – it’s not that you’re so pretty. It used to be, but now – I want to touch you. I really want that, Ms. Pillsbury.”

  
“No. It’s not right. It’s so incredibly  _not okay_.”

  
“When we’re in that room, I don’t feel like a student,” he says, earnestly. “I feel like a person. Like a man. And you’re just a person, too. A woman. We’re just a man and a woman, you know?”

  
Emma wonders which late night movie that line’s from. She thinks she remembers Julia Roberts saying something like that to Hugh Grant, a lot time ago. That Sam seems to believe it makes him seem all the younger to her, and she nearly recoils from him, nearly tells him to leave. She doesn’t want his youth. She wants the reflection of his frailty.

  
“I would really like it,” she says, trying to be clear with him, “if you didn’t say things like that. Okay? This is wrong, no matter how we try to rationalize it. No matter how I try to rationalize it. I’m doing something very wrong here.”

  
“But I  _want_  this.” Sam’s face is red. “It’s not wrong if I want you too.”

  
“Even discounting that what we’re talking about is highly  _illegal_ , I have a boyfriend.” Carl – God, if Carl found out about this. “And you – you’re with Quinn. You’d really do that to her?”

  
“You mean more to me than Quinn,” he pleads. His fingers touch the skin over her sternum. “Please.”

  
She can tell him to go home, and she can sit here and wait for Carl and the rest of her life. It’s the right thing to do. It’s ready for her: this future, her reward for being careful and patient and a good person. 

  
 _What would Nancy tell me to do?_  she thinks, and immediately answers herself,  _she’d never recognize me like this. Never. Because I’d never do anything like this._

 _  
_

“Why do you like me?” she asks him, and her voice is urgent. “Why me?”

  
“We’re the same,” he says, not hesitating. 

  
It’s not exactly true, not completely, but no one’s ever said those words to her before. She covers his hand on her with her own, flattening his fingers against her chest. 

  
“Please,” he repeats.

  
Emma takes a very deep breath and tells him to go wash his hands, thoroughly, with the bar of extra-strength soap she keeps next to the regular dispenser. “Two whole minutes,” she says, because she can’t take any chances. 

 

 

 _first_

 _  
_

They stay in the living room. The couch will have to do; she won’t take him into the bedroom. Not for this.

  
Emma’s careful not to touch his stomach, not wanting to make him self-conscious, but she strokes his hair, cups his shoulders, presses her body against his, without insistence. The firm line of his erection juts against her lower belly. 

  
She doesn’t think about Carl. She doesn’t think about Will.

  
“Could you –“ He’s quiet, his hands on her shoulders. “Can I take this off you? Your sweater. Your, uh, top.”

  
“Yes,” she says, and raises her arms for him. “You should take your shirt off, too.”

  
He pulls the sweater over her head, and the oversized bow smacks against her face, making her wince, just a little. The blouse beneath is trickier, with tiny clasps down the front that take too long to work apart, and by the time she’s opening it to reveal the delicate bra beneath she’s breathing hard, not from arousal but from anxiety. 

  
“You okay?” he asks, concerned.

  
She nods, and folds the blouse and sweater quickly but carefully, placing them on top of the coffee table beside them.

  
When he touches her again, his hands are cold against her breasts, covering them from view, and her nipples stiffen at the contact. He exhales. Emma turns her face up to his, and he kisses her again: it’s sweet and slow. She’s grateful that Sam, unlike the boys she remembers from high school, doesn’t think kissing’s about invasion. 

  
“Take your shirt off,” she says, again, against his cheek, and this time he does, moving just enough away from her to yank it over his head. She closes her eyes briefly; she doesn’t want to risk staring at him. 

  
“What do you want me to do? I’ll do – anything. Whatever you want. Just tell me. What do you like?”

  
He doesn’t know. The realization stuns her. He doesn’t know. 

  
“Anything,” she murmurs, to cover up her shock, and she buries her face in the well of his shoulder and neck. Of course he wouldn’t. Why would he know? “Just be gentle, okay?”

  
Sam’s hands drop from her breasts, and find the zipper on the side of her skirt. She helps him with the hook he doesn’t see, and slips the skirt off. It joins the blouse and sweater on the coffee table, tucked neatly into a square. 

  
She’s standing in front of him in only her underwear. She can’t look at him, not fully, as he stares at her. She looks at his neck instead, watches the cords move as he swallows.

  
“Hey,” he says, and Emma’s eyes rise reluctantly to his own. “You’re – you’re amazing.” 

  
He’s good at this: saying what he thinks she wants to hear, and it’s so close, it’s very nearly the right words. 

  
“Can I?” he asks, breathless, and she follows his gaze down. 

  
Emma blushes, nods. 

  
He holds her close, one arm spanning her waist. The other moves down between their bodies. She feels the pressure of his fingers between her legs, and gasps, just a little, against his skin, as one slips inside her panties, between the folds of her labia. 

  
“How is that? Is that okay?”

  
“Yes,” she breathes. Her hips move of their own accord against his hand. “Should I – do you want me to touch you too?”

  
He nods vigorously, and when she presses her palm lightly over the swell of his erection Sam pushes back against her, gasping. The tip of his finger inside her flicks her clitoris – by accident, she thinks – but it’s  _good_ , it’s so good. “Like that,” she says, moving her hand. “Just like that.”

  
The zipper on his jeans sticks a little, but Emma’s resourceful, and she yanks it down over the catch, revealing the white shock of his boxers. He helps her with the rest of it, abandoning his administrations to pull down his jeans and underwear, kicking them under the coffee table, and she bites her lip to stop from telling him he’s going to wrinkle his clothes. The last thing she wants right now is to sound like his mother.

  
“Let’s –“ He gestures to the couch. She tears her gaze away from the rumpled shirt and jeans and boxers on the floor, catches a glimpse of his penis, angled, dark and full. It makes her cheeks flush, and she tries to be okay with the heat in her face. She unhooks her bra, slips off her panties.

  
When Emma lies down, adjusting herself so that she’s comfortable, Sam joins her, positioning himself slowly on top of her body, straddling her legs, and his hand returns to the slick place between her thighs, insistent. Emma reaches for the lubricant and condom she’s placed on the coffee table. She doesn’t think about Carl. She doesn’t think about him buying this for her: hopeful, expectant. She doesn’t think about it.

  
The lube is alien in her palm, softer, less sticky than she’d thought it would be. Less viscous. Not quite as light as sanitizer, but the basic similarity is soothing, and she’s sure it won’t hurt to pretend that lubricant has similar germ-defying properties, even if it’s a ridiculous fantasy.

  
He takes the condom from her, unwraps it, and stretches it over his penis with a surety that surprises Emma. It occurs to her, with surprising suddenness, that this might not be, as she’d been assuming all this time, Sam’s first sexual encounter.

  
She takes a deep breath and wraps her hand around him, stroking up and down, the lube facilitating the slide of her hand. Sam groans, pushing against her. “Ready,” he says. “God, so  _ready_.”

  
Emma thinks she is, too, although she isn’t sure. 

  
He misses the first time, the head of him trying to enter her an inch or two below the right place, and she takes him in her hand again, guiding him. 

  
At the first push, she gasps, and he freezes. 

  
“Keep going,” she manages. “Please. It’s good, you’re doing so well.”

  
He pushes in a little more, and there’s a sharp burn when her flesh gives way; she inhales sharply, bites her lip, says, “Okay, stop. Just for a second. I’m okay. Just – hold on.”

  
Sam reaches for her hand, takes it in his own, and squeezes lightly. He’s shaking, and she presses back, her fingers threading between his. “I’m here,” he promises, and Emma believes him. 

  
“You can move again,” she whispers, feeling the pressure of his hand in hers, and he thrusts forward the remaining inches, now fully inside her. It’s reverse birth: the fullness of return. Emma chokes back the unwanted sob that’s rising in her throat. She won't cry, not here, not with this boy. She won’t add to her growing list of sins.

  
He touches her breast with his free hand and rocks against her, slowly moving in and out in the first steps of the dance Emma’s wondered about for so many years. There’s pain, still, but it’s muted, the sore scald of unstretched muscles learning to open. She frees her hand and finds the muscles of his hips, encouraging his movements, pressing him against her, gently lifting her own body to match his rhythm. 

  
“Sam,” she says, watching his face closely for signals, “Sam,” and he answers with the unfamiliar wobble of her name, her first name, in his mouth. 

  
She doesn’t orgasm, not tonight and not with him, but it isn’t what she was looking for, anyway, and she takes pleasure in the shocks and sounds he makes as he comes, spilling inside her body. (She’s grateful for the condom, catching every bit of his semen, making the ablutions she knows she’ll have to perform later less intensive. There’ll be very little to clean out of her except her own wetness and the vestiges of the lubricant.)

  
Afterwards, she holds Sam nestled to her chest, trying to remember the warmth of him, the smell of his skin. It’s a short-lived protest against tomorrow, when she’ll try to forget.

 

 

 _child_

  
It’s a long night, once he's gone and the apartment's quiet again. She doesn’t sleep much, and when she does her dreams are unforgiving.

  
When Sam stops by her office the next morning, Emma sees him in the doorway and freezes, her imagination tumbling to the worst possible places.  _He’s told Will. Worse – he’s told Figgins. No,_  Sue.  _Oh, dear God_. 

  
“It’s cool, Ms. Pillsbury,” he tells her, smiling, and closes the door behind him, stepping into her office. “Don’t worry about anything, okay? I just came by to see if you were doing all right.”

  
She knows her face is easy to read, but it’s startling to Emma to know just how visible her thoughts are. “I’m fine, Sam. Thank you. Are you okay?”

  
“Yeah.” The word sounds like gratitude, not reassurance, and the look on his face loosens the anxious cramp in her stomach. “No, I’m good.” 

  
“You know, we should probably not meet for a while,” Emma says, before her courage fails her. “In my office, I mean. And outside. We shouldn’t see each other outside at all.”

  
He shuffles his feet, and she sees the hesitancy in him she’d thought he’d lost with her. “That’s sort of what I came to talk to you about. I wanted to say I don’t think I can do that – you know, what we did – I don’t think I can do that with you again. Not that it wasn’t amazing. Because it totally was. But I can’t again. I’m sorry.”

  
She rushes to assure him that she agrees, but he pushes the hair off his face and shakes his head. “It’s not that. Not the whole you being a teacher thing. I mean, I’d be cool with that if you were. It’s just – “ 

  
“What?” Emma’s confused.

  
“Uh. So. Quinn called me back, last night. After I went home. And we talked a lot, and everything’s cool now. I want to be with her, you know?” He shrugs. “I was thinking about doing something to show her how much I care about her. Like a ring or something? A promise ring. And if I do that, it’s not fair to, I don’t know, see both of you or whatever.”

  
Emma stares at him. “Oh, my God,” she says, softly. 

  
“What is it? What’d I say?”

  
“No,” she whispers. “It’s not you. Not really.” He’s a child. He’s still a child. She’s been with a child. “You’re absolutely right, Sam.”

  
His expression is pure relief, and she wonders, dizzy with what he’s telling her, if Sam had actually thought she’d be upset about his choice of Quinn. If he’d seen himself as having equal opportunities with the cheerleader and the guidance counselor. If he’d chosen Quinn not because she’s the legal option, but because the social currency of that choice gives him a far better foothold than he’d ever have with Emma. 

  
It’s ridiculous, and she hates herself for it, but there it is: a small wave of hurt.

  
“I appreciate your coming to talk to me,” she tells him, trying to keep her voice steady. “I hope you know that if you need me, I’m here for you. As your counselor.” 

  
“I know,” he says. “I know that. You’re really cool, Ms. Pillsbury. You’ve helped me a lot.”

  
She nods. He’s helped her, too. 

  
“Please take care of yourself, Sam,” she insists. “Please. You deserve better than what you think you deserve. Be kind to yourself.”

  
“Yeah.” He smiles, a little, but the curve of his mouth doesn’t match the look in his eyes. “Thanks.”

  
When he’s gone, she covers her face with her trembling hands and thinks: I _can never tell anyone about this. No one. Ever_.

  
She thinks:  _Carl. I’m going to marry Carl_.  _We're going to build a life together_.

  
It doesn’t make her stomach cramp or her shoulders tense, and the safe promise of the two of them suddenly seems so much more desirable, in contrast. 

 

 

 _last_

  
Three weeks later Carl proposes on bended knee in front of the Bellagio fountain in Vegas. His smile is white and blinding, and a small crowd gathers around them, waiting to see if she’ll step into her future. 

  
Emma closes her eyes and feels the heat of the sun on her cold face. It’s harsh, but it’s life-giving, too.

  
“Yes,” she says, and reaches out for him: the best word for a new world.


End file.
